


Two Teas And a Souffle

by cortexinthevortex



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cafe AU, F/M, nothing to see here folks, shamless fluff, smut happens off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexinthevortex/pseuds/cortexinthevortex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara owns a cafe in London, that the Doctor drops in every morning on his way to work. Lots of fluffy grumpy Doctor and a very exasperated Clara. </p>
<p>Also posted on Wattpad under @WhovianInSpace96</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Teas And a Souffle

He picks the Cafe because it's quiet. He wants somewhere to work in peace; removed from the hustle and bustle of inner London with as little human interaction as possible. He supposes that the décor helps with his choice as well- its modern but not bleak, as most trendy cafes seem to be these days. Stylish, but with added pops of unexpected colour like the bright red canopy and chequered tablecloths. He likes it. It reminds him of what its like to be young.

He pushes through the door with a light tinkling of the bell and hangs his wet umbrella awkwardly on the hat stand- the day was dull and overcast, and had been tipping it down with rain since he woke up- and takes a seat near the window in the corner, farthest away from the counter as he can get. The woman working the till gives him a friendly smile and holds up a finger, signalling for a minute, and he makes a start on some legislation due in for his latest court case.  
The woman sets a jar of scones out on the counter then winds her way through the maze of round tables to him. They've only just opened up, and the majority of tables still have chairs or stools resting on their tops. The waitress (he assumes that's her position) leans on his table familiarly, eyes the colour of scorched mahogany twinkling as she whips out a notepad and pen from her flowered apron and flicks to a blank page. She's dressed modestly, but not formally, in a short red dress and thick black winter tights to guard against the biting chill that had recently set in. She smiles at him. He scowls back.

"Good morning," She chirps happily, tapping her pen on her notepad. "Haven't seen you around before."

He frowns at the annoying tap tap tap her pen makes every time it comes into contact with the paper. She stops and twirls it distractingly through her fingers instead. 

"No. You haven't." He replies gruffly. He has no time to waste on pointless courtesies. He has a stack of paperwork in front of him, and a looming deadline ahead.

"Ah." His response has scuppered her attempt at light conversation. She's not one to give up, though, and studies him thoughtfully before trying again. "Are you from round here?" She asks.

"No."

She purses her lips at him. He thinks that she'll never give up and he cuts across her before she can get another word in. 

"Are you going to ask me what I want, or are you going to witter on all day because, quite frankly, I have better things to be getting on with."

Something dangerous flashes through her eyes and her mouth opens in indignation. She looks like she wants to hit him, and to be honest he wouldn't mind if she did. The pain of it might have snapped him back to reality. He's to be disappointed however, as she smoothly covers her anger with an autonomous smile and takes down his order as he dictates it to her, wishing him a pleasant day as she flicks the pad shut and saunters back to the counter to prepare his order.  
He ignores her for the rest of the day, staying in the cafe until at least half of the pile of work in front of him is complete. The cafe fills with regular customers as the day goes on, and the waitress chats to all of them as they come in, calling them by name and teasing them with that same sparkle in her eye that she had turned on him that morning. One of her customers, a broad-shouldered soldier called Danny, had the nerve to call her 'sweetheart', to which she laughed good-naturedly and swatted at him with the dishcloth hanging over one shoulder. 

He packs up his work and leaves the shop half an hour before closing time, having no wish to be the only one left. She calls out a goodbye from the table she's wiping down as he hooks his umbrella, now bone dry, from the stand, and he stares at her then leaves. 

He resolves never to set foot in that cafe again, going to every other in the area apart from her's. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's because she was annoyingly upbeat, a trait of youth that was often fleeting and grated on his tired and frayed nerves. Whatever the reason, he avoids that cafe like the plague, finishing off his paperwork in a futuristic brightly-light coffee shop that makes his eyes water and his head ache. He gets no work done while his in there, preoccupied by thoughts of the waitress and how she was much more friendly towards him than anyone else he knows, taking the time to talk to him and attempting to open him up to her. Even his co-workers didn't dare make small talk, his angry demeanor and sharp tongue whipping them mercilessly whenever they tried. He's always been of an opinion that he's built for loneliness, especially when his wife left him a little over fifteen years ago. The waitress tried harder to connect with him in that cafe than most people he's ever met, and he tries desperately to avoid the urge to run back and apologise to her. He convinces himself that he won't step foot in her shop again. 

By the end of the week, he's back in her cafe.

He enters the shop carefully, almost timidly, hoping to sneak to his seat without being spotted. No such luck: as soon as the bell tings her chin shoots up from her hand. From what he can gather, she'd been snoozing by the till when he came in. Her eyebrows climb into her hairline when she sees him and he almost smiles at her, the hard lines around his eyes and mouth softening when she waves him in and trills a hello to him, asking if he'd like the same as before. He's surprised that she remembers what he ordered and nearly says so, but catches himself and simply grunts instead, dropping into his chair and staring out at the population of London as it passes by.  
His order gets done in no time at all, and soon enough she's standing ( a few feet away from him, unlike before) with his tea on a tray. He shifts his files out of the way and she sets it down in the new space. There's a napkin-covered plate on the tray that he didn't order. He looks up at her in confusion.

"There's been a mistake. I didn't buy this; I don't want it." He told her, curling his finger at the offending item. She simply shrugs, wiping her fingers on her dishcloth and fixing him with an innocent smile that makes his toes curl with distaste. 

"Tough. You've got it now. Don't eat it all at once." She winks at him and twirls to meet the tinkling of the bell as another customer enters, offering them a warm smile and an upbeat greeting. He sputters at her in indignation as she leaves. 

The mystery dish turns out to be a soufflé, fresh from the oven and served with a generous helping of clotted cream. He's not a fan but he eats it anyway, just to be polite, but the brief smile she sends his way once he finishes eating provokes a tiny twitch of his lips back at her that she definitely notices. He thinks she'll say something when she comes to clear his tray, but she lingers long enough to take another order of tea from him and then she's distracted again by the young soldier. He buries his head back in his work when she begins to flirt.

As the weeks pass he comes back more and more. He blames it on the stress of his work but some corner of his mind acknowledges that its her that keeps him going; after the soufflé went down well on the first day it became normal for him to find one on his plate every morning with his regular tea, with one of her warm smiles and a stolen friendly wink. He has no idea what she's playing at. He's by far not the best customer she's had, probably down with the worst, but she treats him with the same level of respect and love that she does her regulars. It confuses him. He's not used to kindness. He has no idea how to respond to her, and stays silent as a mouse whenever she tries to talk to him. He tries to push her away, fixing her with sullen looks and hostile glares that she breezes past like she doesn't see them. 

After a soufflé is placed in front of him for the sixth week in a row he decides its only fair to tell her that he doesn't like them. He has no work to do that day and therefore no reason to go to the cafe, yet he does anyway. He convinces himself its because he's become accustomed to the luxury of a professional cup of tea and free scone every morning. That he wouldn't be able to function without it. But when he catches the early train into London to arrive at her cafe before she's even opened up (in his mind to claim his popular window seat before other customers arrive), the blinding smile she gives him and the small jump his heart gives when he sees her tell him that he may have other reasons for coming that he hasn't come to terms with yet. So maybe he'd keep on eating the soufflés, just for a little while longer. 

The sun's out that morning and the air's hot, so he attributes her good mood to the excellent weather. She unlocks the door and pulls it open with a wild chime of the bells, stepping to one side to let him in. 

"Hello you," she greets him cheerfully, "you're early today. Really really early." 

He checks the clock on the wall and curses mentally. He's a whole half an hour early- no wonder she wasn't open. He hovers on the door mat uncertainly, wondering whether she wants him gone until she opens up fully. She's still baking; he can smell croissants rising in the kitchen. 

"Um." He begins, trying to think up a plausible excuse as to why he would turn up on her doorstep at some ungodly hour of the morning when most sane people were asleep. "The trains...running early...." He shrugs awkwardly, helplessly, cringing at the awful excuse. Trains in London rarely run on time, let alone early. She grins, and her eyes twinkle like they do whenever she's about to tease someone shamelessly but she chokes them back before they come out, registering the ashamed, mortified look he's giving her. She laughs, and he can't help but think that she's laughing at him and he shrivels up inside but then she gives him a gentle swat with her (already damp) dishcloth and directs him towards his usual spot. She's already pulled down the chairs and dressed it with the tablecloth and a vase of dried flowers. He lets himself believe that she did it because she's been waiting for him and slaps his morning paper down on the table. She's disappeared into the kitchen- probably to check on those croissants- and he takes the opportunity to have a look at the other cakes she makes, stored neatly in jars and a long glass case within the counter. The jars are full already; she must do most of her baking in the evening, after she closes. He admires her: it takes a lot of dedication to single-handedly run a cafe. He thinks that maybe he should open a small shop once he retires- a book shop, perhaps- that will keep him ticking over comfortably.

He's so lost in his new found dream that he doesn't notice her re-enter the main shop until her hand appears to tip the fresh croissants onto the display. He jumps. She giggles, high-pitched, and the sound warms his heart.

"It's okay- you can look. It's not a crime unless you take some." She turns her back to him to fill his teapot and he mopes temporarily, viewing any time without seeing her face as wasted. "I had a kid do that once," she continues, dropping a teabag into the pot and flipping the lid shut, "tried to smuggle one of my soufflés out under his jumper. Danny, bless him, caught him and dragged him back by his ear to apologise. I let him keep it, though."

"The child?"

"No, silly, the soufflé." She laughs, hooking a cup from the rack and a saucer from beneath and positioning them, cup down on saucer, next to the teapot on the tray. His brow furrows in confusion. Why would she let a thieving little brat have a soufflé that she had obviously put so much love into baking, only to be stolen?

"Why?" He demands. She pauses, tongs over the jar full of fruit scones. Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline in surprise at the unexpected question. She picks up a soufflé and drops it onto the plate, sliding it onto the tray. 

"Pity, I guess. He's a good kid- the only thing wrong was his family life." She smiles reminiscently. "Oh, you should've seen how happy he was when I told him he could have it as long as he ate it in the cafe and returned the ramekin after. I make him a soufflé every week now. Pops round on a Friday after school to pick it up."

"Ah." He clears his throat. "That's nice-of you. Very kind." 

She looks up at him, eyes wide and soft, and he realises that that was the first time in the month he'd been visiting the cafe that he'd said something genuinely nice to her. The longer she stares at him, all eyes and adoration, the more likely it is that he's going to melt under her gaze. He stares at the till, slapping the money for his tea onto the counter, grabbing his tray and running off to his seat before he does something stupid like telling her how much he appreciates her. He doesn't know what's happening to him. One moment he hated her, and now he was paying her compliments and melting whenever she looks over at him. He pours his tea and picks absently at his soufflé, wondering what he was going to do with his day. There's no immediate need to turn up at his office today- he works mostly from home or, more recently, this cafe- but he can't just hang around here all day with only the day's paper for company. 

Fortunately for him, she has no intention of letting him sulk in his corner all day either. After she had seen to the morning flood of customers she dropped into the chair opposite him, hand fanning her flushed cheeks. He eyes her from over the rim of his teacup, wondering what on Earth she wants with him. Their conversation this morning had been nice, but not good enough that he'd been anticipating a second round. A silence settled around them, and it soon became clear that she was waiting for him to speak first. He scrambles desperately for something to say.

"I don't like soufflés, you know." He tells her, cursing himself that the first thing he thinks to say to her could be interpreted as an insult. She doesn't seem to, though, tilting her head to the side and tapping her fingers on the table thoughtfully. 

"Why'd you eat them, then?" She cups her cheek with her hand, turning her full attention on him. He swallows thickly and shrugs self-consciously, not ready to admit to her that he'd been forcing himself to eat the scones so he'd get a glimpse of her smile. Unfortunately, she's already guessed the reason and smirks at him conspiratorially. "It's OK. Your secrets safe with me, mister." A group of pensioners come through the door and she leaps up to serve them, extracting a promise from him to still be there when she gets back. He agrees wholeheartedly. Where else would he go, anyway?

Once she's done she falls back into her seat with a loud huff and starts chatting non-stop to him. He can barely fit a word in edgeways but he doesn't mind, watching her fondly as she talked animatedly about her life, the cafe, her friends, her university degree in English Literature and the novel she's working on. She'd wanted to travel the world, she told him, then her friend's mother had died and she'd agreed to look after the cafe until she was old enough to do it herself. She's stuck here for another two years but she loves the cafe nonetheless- baking is one of her passions, and when she was little she couldn't get enough of it, always making cake mix and baking cupcakes and souffles for her friends. In return he shares with her a small piece of information about his own mother, how she had been a serious businesswoman and had often left him by himself in the house when she went travelling to distant countries for her job. She's disgusted by it and, much to his amusement, spends the next ten minutes ranting about inadequate parenting. A pressure builds in his chest and he laughs for the first time in years, folding his arms across his chest and chuckling shyly at some of the outrageous suggestions she has on how bad parents could improve. She stops mid-rant and stares at him in relieved disbelief, beaming at him proudly, congratulating herself for making him laugh.  
You'd better come back, she tells him as she's closing up. He's got one foot out the door, and he shuffles uncomfortably. She wants him to come back. He nods quickly, and shoots out of the door before she can say another word. 

On the fourth day since their breakthrough chat, he learns her name. Clara. It suits her, and on the way home from the cafe he rolls it around his mouth, trying it out. He loves it. He uses every opportunity he has, whether it's to tease her whenever she fails at baking or to call her over cheekily to order another cup of tea. He slowly opens up to her, like a starved flower to the sun, and her warmth and love fills him up, melting his heart and softening his rough edges. She starts baking him souffles in the morning instead of scones, and although he's never had them before he eats them, a taste of her childhood that he feels honoured that she wants to share with him. He tells her everything, even his marriage to River Song- a brief affair that was so fast and consuming that it burned him up from the inside out and left him a hollow shell when she left for Egypt. Clara frowned throughout the story and reached out for his hand afterwards. His fingers twitched, reluctant to accept human contact, but he let her do it, registering the sweeping strokes of her fingers over his as he confessed to her his reluctance to love. 

"Love isn't just an emotion," she'd told him, eyes avid on his, "it's a promise. A promise that can withstand anything. It doesn't matter how old you are- love is always there, even in the darkest of souls." She smiled sadly. "You just have to find it." She squeezed his hand, tucked her other palm over his heart. He felt like she was blowing holes in his chest, and any moment he was going to sink into the ground, defeated. He would willingly spend the remainder of his life with her, and it scared him. She was thirty years younger than him. He should know better. But he was like a moth to a flame- he couldn't resist her. It was pointless trying to. He would spend- did spend- every day in that cafe to see her. He didn't know what he'd do once she left to travel the world without him. So in that moment, with her palm laying over his erratic heart and his soul tied to hers, he told her something he had convinced himself he never would.

"My name...my name is the Doctor." He blurted. He's afraid that she'll ridicule him but she grins- this is information that he's held back for quite a while. 

"Well then. Hello, Doctor."

"Hello, Clara." 

The Doctor can't quite remember how it happened. One day they were just good friends, riding the train home together after work joking and teasing good-naturedly with each other, and the next he's kissing her under the light of a lamppost outside her house. He had intended to hug her and wish her good night- Clara, however, clearly has other ideas. He freezes awkwardly, his senses screaming at him to push her away, but as Clara ran her tongue along his bottom lip, prodding and teasing, he found himself returning the kiss, opening his mouth and letting her in. Their tongues touched and she moaned quietly, sending jolts through his body that, a couple of months ago, he was sure he'd never experience again. He wrapped his arms around her waist in response, crushing her to him, and when Clara parts from him to take a breath he presses open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and down the smooth curve of her neck. She returns what she can, tugging on the short grey curls at the base of his neck, backing him up towards her house. He lifts his head.

"Clara-are you...I mean-" He struggles to get the words out, her fingers raking down his back.

"Shut up." She tells him, and to her surprise he obeys, returning his lips to hers as she struggles to open the door one-handed. She practically shoves him in and kicks the door shut behind her, stepping into his arms once she hangs up her coat on a hook. 

"What about my coat?" He asks stupidly, stalling, giving her time to stop him. She laughs and takes it off for him. He doesn't want to stop. He feels alive, more alive than he's ever been, and even if it only happens for one night. One night will be enough, he tells himself, but he knows that once he's fallen into bed with her once he won't be able to stop. So he gives himself over to her, every last piece, the man she discovered hiding within the shell of himself and repaired. For some reason, she wants him, and he wasn't about do deny her anything. He owes her. He needs her. He's determined to give back to her what she gave to him, one act of love at a time. And as long as she kept on taking it, he would keep on giving. 

He finds her making them tea in the kitchen the next morning, dressed in his work shirt that reaches mid-thigh. Her bed-head is, quite frankly, spectacular and her face is clear from yesterday's make-up, yet she is at the most beautiful he's ever seen her. She doesn't hear him come in and he leans against the doorway in his dark blue dressing gown, savouring the quiet moment. His heart swells with love as he watches her, the sensation new and frightening, and he watches the rays of the sun glint off her hair and make it shine auburn. He was falling for her, falling fast, a gently burning love that turns his legs to jelly and his brain to mush. There's no rhyme or reason to it, and he doesn't expect her to love him back. He's nearly an old man, for christ's sake. Old enough to be her father, not that she seems to care. He feels lucky, incredibly lucky, to have caught the attention of someone like Clara, even for a short blissful night.

He thinks of the past, of the bitterness and failed relationships that led him to her. He thinks of the sour days at work, the yelling, the crushing loneliness of living by himself with no-one to keep him company, with no-one to care if he suddenly upped and left for a different city or if he died. But then he remembers Clara; the look on her face when he first saw her, the kindness and love he hadn't deserved. The days, weeks and months following, when she opened him up to her and reminded him that his life was worth living. His past had been painful, filled with anger and bottomless sorrow. His future, with Clara, looked bright and promising and he knows-right there, he knows- that her promise of love and their future together was one that he'd remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr (but only if you want to): cortexinthevortex.tumblr.com


End file.
